


I’m Falling Down, Down, Down

by 90slouisfthes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2014 era, Alleged Suicide, Anal Sex, Bottom Louis, Criminal Justice, Depression, Innocent Louis, Insecure Louis, Jay Tomlinson - Freeform, M/M, Mute - Freeform, Rimming, Slight Dom/Sub, borderline eating disorder, he is fragile, i promise it’s not too bad, i was depressed while writing this, im sorry, larry - Freeform, louis doesn’t speak, louis is tiny, m/m - Freeform, major death, murder?, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 14:25:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/90slouisfthes/pseuds/90slouisfthes
Summary: Louis has stumbled down the dark alley leading to a world where the name Harry Styles means more than just a boy from the bakery, it means a story behind the greatest person he’d ever met. Louis could spend hours, even days talking about Harry, though it’s hard to talk mountains about someone who isn’t here, especially when you don’t speak.





	I’m Falling Down, Down, Down

**Author's Note:**

> this was created (also) for my creative writing class and i once again used lou and harry as my models but what else is new? it was made to be a short story about a murder mystery but i think i wanna expand on it? idk i’ll probably make this chaptered eventually lol

He couldn’t help the tear that had escaped the confines of his left eye when he added another tick to the ever-growing collection on the wall beside his bed. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. The palms of his hands dug into his eye sockets, trying to erase some of the burn from them, thinking maybe the bags would no longer be there when he removed his hands.  
They were. They always would be. No matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t ever be enough. Though he knew this, it didn’t soften the pain he was feeling. The green chalk found its home back on the windowsill, the same palms brushing over the wall in a slow motion. As if they were trying to memorize something, anything. Perhaps the last time he remembered smiling, or the last time someone else was the reason for his smiling, maybe that’s what he wanted to memorize, chasing the visions in his head. They both always came back to the same moment.  
The wall never changed, aside from the stray markings that went up in count every night before he closed his eyes. His nights filled with fear, so much fear that he only prayed to escape. Hoping the morning would bring him relief, only for him to remember he wasn’t dreaming made up scenarios, but his day was actually following him to the one place he thought was safe. Harry always told him his dreams were the safest place, often filled with visions of himself. He finds them still full of his face, except he isn’t smiling anymore. Neither of them ever smile anymore.  
He spent the weekend running around in a state of well being that should have him bedridden for weeks on end, but its been months and he never gets better. He conquered the old man who works for the print company on the corner this weekend, he fit so well into the story. The strings connected all across the wall next to his closet, from picture to article, to notes written in the scratched up penmanship that became his own after he stopped being happy - it was almost unrecognizable - in hopes to lead him somewhere. Recently, they led him to Geremy Miles, led him right up the path to the print company early saturday morning. It only really led him to nothing in the end. His story didn’t add up anymore, his daughter apparently went into labor a mere hour after the event. There was no way he was lying, his boss was there to back him up, says he drove him to the hospital himself.  
His mum tried to help him the first few weeks, months even, but she eventually gave up hope. Since then he’s recruited Zayn to help him on his journey, he’s the only one who understands him anymore. Harry always understood him. But Harry hasn’t been around to understand him lately, more than lately. If he scanned his eyes up the wall on his bedside, he could count out the small groups of crooked lines, all of which were accompanied by a dusting of chalk smudging it from the sides, a reminder that every five days Harry still hasn’t been given justice he has to move his left hand through the groups in order to start a new one, smudging them with the side of his hand in the midst of it.  
He and Zayn have hit an unmovable roadblock now, though. All the nights spent printing up pictures of the community members and places, cutting yarn the appropriate length in order to stretch from person to place, they seemed pointless now. He knew they weren’t, they had to lead somewhere, he prayed they led somewhere. It wasn’t fair, he’d spent so long trying to tell his mum it wasn’t fair, that it would never be fair. She never understood though, it was his fault she couldn’t hear him after all. For he had spent the last 13 months trying to make people hear him. Trying to make people understand it was hurting him, someone took his happiness away, the light in his life.  
The town stopped trying to piece it all together long ago, eleven and a half months ago to be exact. They found a note, claimed it suicide. But he knew Harry, he knew him like the back of his own hand. He was happy, so so happy. Harry wouldn’t leave him like that, he promised him he’d never leave him. “I’ll love you forever,” he’d told him one night, “forever and always, through the good, the bad, the ugly.” He kissed him stupid afterwards, promising him they’d grow old together, forever and always. He couldn’t stand here and take it when they gave up, someone was responsible and he made it his mission to figure it out, if it was the last thing he ever did. Harry deserved justice, he’d give Harry whatever he wanted, always.  
So he spent the last eleven and a half months taping pictures to his wall and drawing tally marks on the wall next to his bed. He’s been so close, he’s so, so close lately, at least he thought he was. Zayn is growing tired of him, he knows he is. Though, he’d never tell him that, because Zayn is the only person left who hasn’t given up on him, on Harry. Zayn knows what this means to him. So they spend day after day trying to put it together, trying to “find that bastard who brought you so much pain, Lou, gonna find him I promise you that.”  
He let his eyes scan up the bedside wall once more before he went to bed this evening, counting the fragile lines and trying to imprint them to memory. He did it every night, just to be sure he wasn’t going crazy. He knew he was bordering on crazy lately though, because tonight when he started to count up the markings, he only got to forty seven before the floods opened and he let the tears come falling down his face, a rush of warm liquids pooling in his collar bones. He only got to forty seven before he had to close his eyes and picture Harry in front of him. He only got to forty seven before he was shaking his head back and forth, trying to will the tears to stop. Because he didn’t have to count the markings to know anymore. He knew the number better that his own phone number by now. He saw the number three hundred and ninety six in everything.  
Because it’s been three hundred and ninety six days since he last spoke.


End file.
